Mordant

Chapter Nine: French and English Werewolves

“Protego!” Celia hollered, just before any of the well-aimed spells could hit her.

Beams of light went bouncing off in all directions. The other patrons ducked for cover; a bottle of wine exploded as a Reductor Curse hit it, and the proprietor yelled something angry in French.

“Impedimenta!” shouted Linus, and one of the attackers fell, but another fired a Bone-Shattering Hex at Linus from behind. Celia, fortunately, had him covered. She deftly blocked the hex and countered with a jet of blue light that caused the second man to fall to the floor in pain, but he still had his wand out and kept firing spells from under one of the tables.

Linus tried to Stun the others, but they, too, had shielded themselves behind the furniture and kept blocking his curses. Celia was shouting something about Death Eaters, but that couldn’t be possible. Could it?

A bright red beam of light caught her as she tried to make her way to his side. Her head struck a corner of a table as she fell.

Linus barely had time to process this. Something inside him said oh no not Celia please no, and without regard for his own safety he dodged his way through the spells that crisscrossed the room, took her by the shoulders, and dragged her toward the fireplace. One of the men darted out from under a table and tried to grab her feet, but Linus blasted him straight through the back wall of the café.

He pushed the unconscious Celia into the fireplace before him, tossed in a handful of Floo Powder, and did his best to pronounce Gilles Bisclavret’s address correctly, hoping against hope that they’d end up in the right place. The Floo Powder took effect with its usual dizzying speed, and moments later they tumbled out onto the floor of an unfamiliar room in what was evidently a private home.

“Collofocus!” Linus sealed the fireplace behind him just as the owner of the house, a tall and imposing-looking wizard of about sixty, came into view.

“Er ... bonjour,” said Linus.

“Bonjour,” said the other wizard politely, but he kept a firm grip on his wand.

“Excusez-moi, Monsieur,” Linus continued feverishly. “Je m’appelle Linus Berowne. Je ne veux ... trespasser, mais c’est une emergencie. Je suis un fugitive pour ma vie, et cette femme est molto ... trés ... mauvaise. Nous sont attaqués dans le Café Lanval. Elle pense que c’est les ... les Personnes qui Mangent la Mort.”

The wizard, who had been bending over Celia with an expression of grave concern, looked up with a slight spark of amusement in his eyes. “I believe that it would be better if you spoke English. Please explain again who you are and what has happened to Celia.”

They carried Celia to the sofa, and the other man fetched some blankets to cover her. Meanwhile, Linus recounted the story as coherently as he could, up to the point where Celia Stunned his contact. “I don’t know why she did it, but I think she must have had a pretty good reason.”

“If I know Celia at all, I am certain that she had an excellent reason. Please go on.”

“And then three or four other men – Englishmen, I think – all attacked us at once. Celia seemed to think they were Death Eaters –”

“Ah!” The light dawned on Bisclavret’s face. “Les Mange-Morts, we call them. What made her think so?”

“I don’t know, but that’s what she said just before they hit her. She’s only Stunned, as far as I know, but she fell and hit her head on a table, and she may have a few bumps and bruises from when we were getting away. There wasn’t time to be gentle.”

 Bisclavret nodded, and they began to check Celia for injuries. Linus was struck, more forcibly than he’d ever been before, by what a small woman she was, hardly larger than a child. He cupped one of her hands in the hollow of his palm, and it almost disappeared. To his relief, her breathing and pulse were strong and she had no visible wounds. “Ennervate,” he said, and after a moment that seemed like an age, she opened her eyes.

“We’re at Gilles’ place. How –”

“Shh,” said Linus. “Don’t try to sit up just yet. Are you hurt?”

She wrinkled her forehead a little, as if giving the question careful attention. “Not really. My head hurts a bit, but it doesn’t feel concussed or anything.”

“Drink,” said Bisclavret, handing her a cup of a Restorative Potion, and she sipped obediently.

A warm flood of relief washed over Linus, leaving him shaky at the knees and a bit sharp-tongued. “D’you mind explaining why you decided to Stun a perfect stranger in a crowded café?” he demanded.

“Because he wasn’t a stranger at all. His name is Peter Pettigrew, and he was a good friend of my son’s when they were growing up.”

Bisclavret looked as astonished as Linus felt. “Peter Pettigrew died fourteen years ago. At least, if you are speaking of the famous Peter Pettigrew.”

“Yes,” said Celia with a wry smile, “that’s exactly why I didn’t like seeing him at your table.”

“Even so, what made you think they were Death Eaters?” asked Linus.

“One of them was tried as a Death Eater during the war. Avery, I think his name was. He said he was acting under the Imperius curse, but Remus went to school with him, and he didn’t believe it for a minute.”

“Remus seems to have a lot of old schoolmates mixed up in this,” Linus remarked.

“He certainly does. I think I’d better send him a message and see what he can tell us.”

 

                                                            *          *          *

The post from the City of Ys was delivered by a complicated chain of animal messengers, including rays and seagulls, so it was some hours before they heard from Remus.

Toward evening, Gilles Bisclavret rummaged around in the kitchen and came up with some cheese and paté and a couple of long, thin loaves of bread. He apologized profusely for not having enough food in the house to offer them a proper meal, but Linus and Celia assured him that it looked wonderful and, after all, he could hardly have expected a pair of uninvited guests to come tumbling out of his fireplace. They were having a pickup supper when Remus Apparated into the room, swayed slightly, and collapsed into the nearest chair.

He gave Celia a wan smile. “Hi, Mum. What’s happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you. You shouldn’t have tried to Apparate in your condition. Did you come all the way from England? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking my mother had been attacked by Death Eaters. That’s what you said in your letter, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean for you to – Never mind. You’d better have something to eat, and we’ll talk afterwards.”

Remus attacked what was left of the bread and paté with an eagerness that was already becoming familiar to Linus. Once the post-transformation sickness finally wore off, you were ravenous.

“Right, then,” he said when he had finished eating. “You’d better tell me the whole story from the beginning.”

Linus took Riddle’s letter out of his pocket. “The beginning would be about two weeks ago, when I received this letter. I wrote back, he proposed that I meet one of his representatives in France. Have a look for yourself.”

“Good God,” said Remus after reading through the letter. “Do you know who T. M. Riddle is?”

“Old schoolmate of ours,” said Linus. “I don’t know exactly what he’s doing these days, but based on the way my meeting with his representative went, I get the impression he’s sort of a shady character.”

Remus’ mouth twitched slightly. “That would be something of an understatement,” he said. “T. M. Riddle is otherwise known as Lord Voldemort.”

A stunned silence greeted this announcement. After a moment, the tension was broken when Celia demanded, “And you didn’t tell me this before ... why?”

Remus had the good grace to flush. “Classified information.”

“I ... gave ... birth ... to ... you!”

“I’m sorry, Mum. If I’d known anything about the letter Linus got, or about this meeting, I would have told you – but Dumbledore doesn’t want the information to go beyond people who need to know, at least not now.”

“Why?” Linus asked. “Is old Stumblebum afraid it’ll get out that he had a role in shaping the Dark Lord, or is he worried that the Death Eaters’ precious little feelings will be hurt if they find out their leader is Muggle-born?”

“Half-blood, actually,” said Remus.

“Half-blood. Whatever. Give me one good reason why he’s been sitting on this information all these years.”

“You, as a half-blood, ought to see why. Think about it this way. Riddle is the product of a mixed marriage. Muggle father, pureblood mother from an old family. And he’s gone as bad as a wizard can possibly go. You know, and I know, that this doesn’t reflect on us. But the active Death Eaters are far outnumbered by the pureblood faction that’s sitting on the fence – people who don’t agree with Voldemort’s measures, and may even be horrified by them, but are still steeped in the old prejudices. To them, he’s living proof that mixing bloodlines really does lead to disaster. In other words, there’s apt to be a massive backlash against half-bloods like you and me if this gets out, much of it from people who are prepared to tolerate us at the moment.”

Remus did not meet their eyes as he finished speaking, and Linus had the feeling he was still keeping something back.

“I’ll risk the backlash any day,” he said. “Making it public that Voldemort isn’t a pureblood would have ten times the propaganda value.”

“And I don’t believe it makes the slightest difference what the propaganda value is.” Celia’s voice was sharp. “How do you expect people to make the right decisions if you don’t trust them with the truth?”

“You’re right.” Linus slammed one of his fists into the opposite palm. “He’s got no bloody right to conceal the truth when it might cost people’s lives.”

Remus got to his feet and, for the first time since Linus had met him, raised his voice. “How was he supposed to know that? It’s not as if you told anybody before you dragged my mother into a Death Eater ambush!”

“Please,” Bisclavret interrupted. “Calm down, all of you. Remus, I have known your mother longer than you have, and it is my experience that she does not permit herself to be – what was the expression you used? – dragged into any place where she has not freely chosen to go. Mr. Berowne, I do not think Professor Dumbledore’s motives are terribly important just now. What matters is that you are safe.”

“No,” said Remus quietly. “The two of you just faced a room full of Death Eaters, and you have every right to hear the truth. I’ll give it to you. But I need your word that what I’m about to tell you doesn’t go beyond this room.”

“You have mine,” said Linus.

“And mine,” said Bisclavret.

“Mum?”

Celia wavered, obviously torn between principle and curiosity. At last she nodded.

“Tom Riddle is the sole living descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

“WHAT!?!” Linus nearly choked on the bread and cheese he had been eating. “But - but the Heir of Slytherin business is a myth. Idiotic superstition invented by bigots. Everybody with half a brain knows that.”

Remus looked at him with a slightly twisted smile. “I don’t say that all the mystique that’s grown up around it is true. Most of it isn’t, as it happens. But Riddle’s ancestry is verifiable.”

“So in other words,” said Bisclavret slowly, “if I understand the political situation in England correctly, to reveal this information would turn a madman whom a handful of people believe to be Slytherin reincarnated ... into someone who actually is.”

“Precisely,” said Remus. “So, Mum, you see why I made you promise to keep this quiet.”

Celia did not look altogether convinced. “I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one, Remus. But don’t worry. I’ll keep my word.”

“Fair enough.” Remus dropped the subject and resumed examining the envelope that had held Riddle’s letter. He frowned. “He knows where you live, Linus,” he said. “He didn’t just send the owl to find you, he wrote the address out. And he knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Peter to meet you in Ys, of all places. You’re a stranger here, he knew you’d be in poor condition to Apparate, and you can’t leave the city by Floo Powder. If you hadn’t known that Gilles’ house was a safe place for you to go, you would have been trapped.”

Celia shivered. “Diabolical.”

“About the only good news is that Voldemort didn’t know of your connection with Linus, or he would hardly have sent Peter, of all people, to meet with him. The bad news is that he certainly knows now.”

“Are we in any danger?” asked Celia.

“I’d be happier if there were some protective spells around both of your houses. I can arrange to have it done tomorrow – I know people, it won’t be a bit of trouble – but it’s probably better if you don’t go home tonight.”

“You are most welcome to stay here,” said Bisclavret courteously. “You too, Remus. I think you had better not try to Apparate again tonight.”

Remus, who had been yawning broadly for the last few minutes, did not protest. Linus realized that his own legs felt like lead after the day’s excitement, and he suspected his host was feeling the aftereffects of the full moon as well.

Bisclavret lent him some clean pajamas and showed him up a narrow flight of stairs to one of the guest bedrooms. He prepared for bed quickly and blew out the candle, but before he had been lying between the sheets for long, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called, and Celia sat down on the edge of his bed.

“Thought you could do with a bit of company,” she whispered.

“I’m tired, Celia,” he warned her. “Very tired.”

“Oh. I’ll go back to my own room if you want me to.”

“I didn’t say that. Not at all.”

He shifted over to make room for her and fell asleep within minutes, his arm underneath her body and the comforting weight of her head on his shoulder.

 

                                                            *          *          *

There was no dawn in the city of Ys, and Linus wasn’t entirely sure why there was night or day; but when they woke, the thin white curtains had begun to glow with a light that came from nowhere in particular. Celia threw them open and they looked out over a cluster of roofs shingled with shells and a winding city wall the color of the ocean floor. It all seemed less uncanny than the day before, and Linus was amused to see a couple of post-rays glide overhead with their bundles of letters, looking for all the world like long-tailed birds.

They went downstairs to find Remus and Gilles already at breakfast. There were pots of rich, strong coffee and hot milk on the table, and fresh croissants from the bakery around the corner.

A small, pale woman whom Gilles introduced as his sister Pernette stopped by halfway through the meal and joined them for a second cup of coffee. She spoke little English and seemed very shy. Even Remus, whose French was excellent, was unable to engage her in conversation, although she favored Celia, who seemed to be an old friend of the family, with a smile.

The Bisclavrets left for work soon afterward, and Celia went back to the guest rooms to tidy them up before they left.

“What does Bisclavret do for a living?” Linus asked.

“Something to do with the city government, I think,” said Remus.

“I gather French laws about employing werewolves are different from ours, then?”

“Yes. And there’s less overt prejudice here than there is in England.” Remus helped himself to another croissant and buttered it absently. “I like France. I lived in Paris for three years.”

“Why don’t you move back?”

“Too much work to do at home.”

Linus had a feeling that this “work” didn’t have anything to do with the migrational patterns of the hinkypunk, but he doubted Remus would tell him if he asked. He turned the subject back to Gilles Bisclavret instead. “He doesn’t look nearly as unwell as most of the werewolves I’ve met in England. Nor as defeated.”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Doesn’t it make you angry? That so much human suffering is avoidable?”

Remus carefully brushed the flakes of pastry away from the table, and paused for a moment before he answered. “Don’t get the idea that it’s a paradise here. The laws are less restrictive in France, and people are less likely to insult you to your face, but you’ll notice Gilles and his sister have never married. Same sort of social stigma.”

“His sister’s a werewolf too? But I thought it wasn’t hereditary?”

Remus looked embarrassed. “In the old days, and especially in little provincial villages like the one where the Bisclavrets were born,” he said slowly, “it was common to allow a lycanthropic child to bite his siblings. The thinking was that the children could keep each other company when they transformed and would pose no danger to each other, instead of having to worry that one of them would get loose and kill the others every full moon.”

“My God. I can’t believe any parent would do that. That’s barbaric.”

“That’s what my father said when he met Gilles and Pernette’s parents. This would have been many years before I was born – Dad was a young professor at Beauxbatons then, very progressive in his thinking, detested ignorance and superstition in all their forms. And being Dad, he told them so to their faces. Well, Gilles’ mother just reached for her rosary beads and said, ‘Pray heaven you never have to make such a choice yourself, Professor Lupin.’ He never forgot that moment. He must have told me that story a thousand times.”

“And – did he?”

Remus shook his head. “I’m an only child. And I can’t imagine they would have let me bite any of the others if there had been others. Gilles is an old friend, and they’ve seen what it’s done to him. He was the one who was bitten first, you see, and his sister hasn’t done nearly as well as he has. I don’t think he’s quite come to terms with the guilt, even though it wasn’t his choice to bite her.”

“Poor man,” said Linus. He wondered what it would be like to have to live with the knowledge that he’d bitten somebody.

“Er, on that note, may I ask you something? This is awkward, but I gather you and my mother are becoming ... well, have become something more than friends?”

“Yes,” said Linus. “You might say that.”

“Do you think that’s fair to her?”

“Fair?” Linus hadn’t been thinking about it in terms of fairness. “We like each other. At least, I like her and she gives every impression of liking me. I think that’s all that matters.”

“But it’s more complicated than that, unfortunately. You have to consider the nature of our condition – Oh, hi, Mum.”

Neither of them had heard the door open, and they sat in some embarrassment as Celia looked them over.

“Remus, if you are under the impression that I don’t know what his illness entails,” she said slowly, “I think you might have a little trouble supporting that proposition.”

Remus flushed scarlet. “Right, Mum. I’ll just mind my own business in the future, shall I?”

“That would be a good idea, yes.”

“Am I allowed to say congratulations, and I wish you the best of luck, and all that?”

Celia smiled. “That you may.”